Memory’s Invitation

Why does this memory return today?  This question is endlessly fruitful for those of us who seek the meaning buried in experience.  I ask it whenever a memory won’t let me go.  My father died in July, and this simple meal on a park bench conjures completely all he meant to me:  Our mutual effort to begin again.

All My Relations

All these relatives contributed to my life. Their stories exert an influence on my story. When I become conscious of them, when I welcome their being into mine, I become them, too, at least in part. An important dimension of myself is returned to me.

Stories in the Genes

My ancestors are with me, in me. Their stories are my story, and somehow this is comforting. I’m not alone. I’m living out our story—and it’s so big, surely it’s holy.

Imprinting Fall

I want to be opened up and marked today. Changed. Colored. I want to be these maple branches against a blue sky for Gwyn when I greet her at school. I want to be so rich in pigment that it seeps into these words and paints your mind. Today I worship a God named Beauty, or, if you prefer, I love how beauty is a source of life. And I love how beauty, like God, can sustain us even when it’s gone.